Walls
by truglasgowgal
Summary: If these walls could speak, they'd tell you many things. They'd tell you of a man and a boy; of a father and son; a family. They'd tell you of love.


This came to me randomly the other day. I was actually going to use another song, one which fit entirely too well with the funeral scene; but ye never know, I might add another part, or just use that for another ;)  
As it is, this came to me, and I typed it up, and here I am presenting it to you.

Hope you enjoy…

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**Title:** Walls  
**Disclaimer:** I own nothing, sadly :'(  
**A/N:** bold italics are song lyrics  
**Summary:** If these walls could speak, they'd tell you many things. They'd tell you of a man and a boy; of a father and son; a family. They'd tell you of love.

_"Sometimes we put up walls around our hearts, not to keep people out, but to see who cares enough to try and break them down."  
**Unknown**_

If these walls could speak, they'd tell you many things.

They'd tell you of the passage of time where the trading of under-the-counter envelopes was as subtle as the deal making handshake over the desk was evident. They'd tell you of interrupted phone calls and meetings cut short. They'd tell you of hushed arrangements and muttered warnings.

They'd tell you of a man who shut himself in his office at nearly every opportunity, who was immensely private with his affairs, who abhorred interruptions and amendments by all, but one.

They'd tell you of a little boy with dark hair and even darker eyes; who followed his father with his eyes before he could walk, and then with his feet when he could.

-

But walls cannot speak. And so they have people speak for them.

People who mill around in the background, noticeable only in times of need or want. People who stand beside you, their true presence only missed when they leave.

People who watch over you, never seen but forever there.

_**If these old walls,  
If these old walls could speak  
Of the things that they remember well,  
Stories and faces dearly held,  
A couple in love  
Livin' week to week,  
Rooms full of laughter,  
If these walls could speak.**_

And they would elaborate on these tales, fill them to the brim with feeling.

Because while these men spun tales with their lips: they sold them with their eyes.

Eyes that were as clear and hypnotizing in one, as they were dark and drowning in the other.

Eyes that told of secrets never uttered, and places never ventured.

Eyes that played loyalist for seventeen years; then tarnished the record with their traitorous deeds nearly every day for the following one.

Eyes that kept Hurt and Anguish and Pain and all their cousins on a tight leash that held strong save for those few times, those messy few, when Pride and Amusement and Caution among the many lost their grip.

Eyes that were indeed windows to the soul.

_**They would tell you that I'm sorry  
For bein' cold and blind and weak.  
They would tell you that it's only  
That I have a stubborn streak,  
If these walls could speak.  
If these old fashioned window panes were eyes,  
I guess they would have seen it all--  
Each little tear and sigh and footfall,  
And every dream that we came to seek  
Or followed after,  
If these walls could speak.**_

They'd recount days of old.

When laughter filled the rooms and spilled out of every crevice.

When smiles were rays of sunshine in the dark and bright eyes like guiding stars.

When words were transfers of heartbeats, blended between lips and hearts were held close but entrusted to another.

-

And when these were disputed for another time gone; they'd testify. Testify to its existence, to the involvement, to an epic tale.

They'd offer proof, evidence of a love that truly existed; that was real and true and wonderful.

They'd point to him.

_**If these old halls,  
If hallowed halls could talk,  
These would have a tale to tell  
Of sun goin' down and dinner bell,  
And children playing at hide and seek  
from floor to rafter,  
If these halls could speak.**_

They'd replay those times that came after.

When hard looks and disapproving eyes were the way home in a maze of doubt and uncertainty.

When warnings and stern words fell on ears of the unaware and objects fell from small hands in lesson learnt.

When silence filled the spaces and the only sound was the chains twisting tighter round the clamp in his chest.

-

And when these were said to be the only things ever remembered; again they'd challenge.

They'd tell of the countless meetings cut short, of the trips that ended early.

They'd tell of the gifts purchased, the money spent.

They'd tell of the eyes hired, the care bought.

_**They would tell you that I owe you  
More than I could ever pay.  
Here's someone who really loves you;  
Don't ever go away.  
That's what these walls would say.**_

They'd recall more recent moments.

When pushing open the door to a bedroom was more like the clocking of visitations and you were a guest in your own home.

When care was on the hotel payroll and the passing of paper bills through stages of undress and seats with cherry tongues ensured good behaviour.

When spending time together meant clearing space in your calendar and impromptu drop-ins were turned into appointments on schedule.

-

And when the heads turned away and the muttering of _too little, too late_ rang loudly in the air; they'd contest.

And they'd make their point heard.

They'd remind them of the little boy who doted on his father, who wanted nothing more than to be like him. Who dressed, and acted, and _was_ his father's son.

They'd remind them of the man who followed his son's every move because he was terrified of missing a single detail, of something happening in his absence. Who studied, and stared, and never took his eyes off the boy who was his own.

They'd remind them of a family that wasn't perfect, a family that had its faults, but a family that worked, a family that was real; a family that was theirs.

_**They would tell you that I owe you  
More than I could ever pay.  
Here's someone who really loves you;  
Don't ever go away.  
That's what these walls would say.**_

And he'd remember.

He'd remember his sixth birthday when he'd crept into his father's room and pried open the bedside drawer. When he'd traced a finger round the silver gilded frame that outlined the image of a regal beauty of a woman. When his father had entered and caught him and questioned him simply on his purpose. When the cool metal was placed in his small hands and his fingers wrapped round the edges. When the promise to keep it, _her_, safe forever spilled easily from his lips and eyes as vast and clear as the ocean watched over him.

He'd remember at ten when he'd waited for his father in his office after being sent home from school early. When he'd gotten bored strutting in front of the large mirror, hands in his pockets and head dipped with a sneer on his face; and decided to try out the large chair for himself. When he'd looked up to find his father standing by the door watching him with a look he's never been able to place displayed across his features. When his father had walked steadily towards him and held him still, hands on his shoulders, when he'd moved to stand up and turned the chair to face the large glass. When he'd sat in his father's seat, the man himself standing behind him, and looked out across the city; his father's words echoing in his ears as a palm opened to offer him the empire. _One day, Chuck, one day all this will be yours; all I have to give will be yours._

He'd remember at seventeen when he'd heard the knock at his door and had watched his father pass through the threshold to his bedroom for the first time in years. When he'd apologised to him and told him he'd made mistakes. When he told him he wanted to know him, wanted to know his son.

He'd remember.

And so would they.

_**That's what these walls would say.**_

If these walls could speak, they'd tell you many things.

They'd tell you of a man so consumed by guilt and grief that he found it hard to even look at his son; difficult to spend time with him; impossible to get to know him.

They'd tell you of a man so tortured by the past that every time he looked at his son, he saw his late wife staring back at him; eyes so dark they threatened to pull him down into the abyss with them; eyes that reminded him of a time gone, and

They'd tell you of a boy so consumed by guilt and grief that he found himself drowning in alcohol and encircled with smoke before he could try and comprehend that it could ever be any different.

They'd tell of a boy so tortured by the past he never knew that he thought he'd killed his own mother; the woman whom his father had loved so completely; the woman who'd left her mark on the Bass men even if her essence had left them wanting more.

_**That's what these walls would say.**_

They'd tell you of a man that loved his son, and a boy that loved his father; in the only way they knew how.

They'd tell you of a love that was real; a love that surpassed the ages; and the family that made it so.

**  
The End.**

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_A/N:_ Song – 'If These Walls Could Speak' by Amy Grant

Ok, so this didn't end up at all like I thought it would, an I'm not entirely sure I'm happy with it, but mweh…

Also, I hope it wasn't too confusing :S

For readers of my other stuff, I haven't forgotten about my other fics – I know I tend to post random things like this an not update my WIPs, but this week for some reason our internet decided to mess up an we only just got back online today; which is why I haven't updated already even though I said I would.

I will try get my updates up asap, but thanks for reading and reviewing and alerting et al :)

Hope you liked this.  
Please let me know what you thought – it means a lot!  
Steph  
xxx


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